Don't Shoot Me, I'm Only the Piano Player
by His Sweetheart the Drunk
Summary: Everyone can be touched by music - even the Clown Prince. Explores the effect of music on the mind of the Joker - twisted obsessions ensue, no fluff. Joker/OC, first fic, please R&R! Post TDK. Title comes from Elton John's album of the same name.
1. Chapter 1

**Don't Shoot Me, I'm Only The Piano Player**

It didn't happen the way it usually did.

Up until then, he was known to follow a ... format, a routine, when it came to these things. The same way one would consider it the norm to frequent the club scene, seeking company, he favored the hostage situation/wham-bam-dispose-of-you-ma'am from which he derived his sadistic, deviant pleasure. Hit-and-run. Quick and painful. Instant gratification.

In spite of this, he still had the odd flickering urge for intimacy. Never love, not romance, or even some semblance of commitment – he held those in the deepest contempt. Those were dilute illusions, marks of weakness, and nothing else. He simply entertained the thought of having someone familiar to look forward to, who knew and connected with him, whom he wouldn't have to take a knife to in order to get the job done. He had, after all, been wholly human once.

But although these thoughts appealed to a certain part of him, they also disgusted the larger, dominant part him. The part that thrived on fear – fear as an instrument, composing the preferable background music to any situation, especially of a sexual nature. Dismissing these thoughts of intimacy as a defect, a sickness, he would sardonically remind himself that this supposed emotional whoring was nothing a couple of explosions couldn't cure. And so he had carried on.

But this time was different. It started with another bead on playboy Bruce Wayne's seemingly endless string of parties.

The Joker had been lying low since his escape from Arkham two weeks ago. He had been holed up, perfecting his latest and greatest, and as an unfortunate side effect, was granting the still-reeling Gotham yet another night of reprieve from his large-scale chaos. But he was pursuing a much more interesting trail here, with Mr. Bruce Wayne. This operation was much subtler, requiring a higher degree of … finesse.

See, the thing was, the Joker had a hunch. On the night of the attempted extermination of Gotham's former D.A. and fallen White Knight, alias Harvey 'ace-in-the-hole' Dent, Batman had made an admirably quick appearance at Wayne Manor. The Joker wasn't one to leave a trail, unless it was supposed to be followed. There were very few ways that Batman could have been tipped off as to his whereabouts and intentions, and to use that knowledge to appear so instantaneously. Now, he didn't want to jump to any conclusions, but the Joker didn't miss a trick. He _orchestrated_ them. The bottom line being, the connection between Bruce and the Dark Knight was definitely made and duly noted for further perseverance.

Tonight was the night, when the exploration of the unexplained connection and its nature would begin. As would the slow unraveling of Bruce Wayne. Humming softly to himself, the Joker shrugged on his purple trench coat and loped towards his door. The van was ready. As a firm believer in sticking to what worked for him, he was planning an entrance in more or less the same fashion in which he had arrived at Harvey Dent's fundraiser. He had, after all, received such a wonderful reception. He giggled to himself as he hopped into the vehicle. God, he loved his job.

"And here … we … go." He laughed again, louder this time, as the van pulled out of the lot and sped through the darkened streets of downtown Gotham.

"All right, so, here's the deal, my, ah, not-so-pretties," he began to his henchmen. "I'm feeling rather, ha, _nice_ this evening. I want to, to maintain what I'm sure is, a, loooovely party atmosphere. See, I need to get on Mr. Wayne's, ah, good side?" He spoke quietly, condescendingly, with his incredible, stifling presence silencing the men effortlessly. He exuded feral danger, leonine control. His verbal tics lessened as his demeanor was drained of its humor. "Intimidate, evacuate the room, and get to Wayne. Leave the problem cases to me."

His instructions were met with uncertain silence. He surveyed his clowns, slightly dissatisfied. Not enough fear. Smacking his lips, he spoke again in a lighter tone. "See, if I hear, that little Johnny got his little head blasted off by one of my men, that lucky clown will get a _per_sonal in-vi-tation from yours truly, to party aaaaallllll night long at Wayne Manor, _swimming_ in his very … own … _punch_. Get me?"

Eight frightened heads bobbed back at him. The effect of the clown masks was quite hilarious. Now _that_ was more like it. The Joker snorted, then sighed with pleasure as they pulled up to Wayne Manor. Time to get this show on the road.

Blasting their way through security was laughably effortless, much the same as it had been during his first visit. Didn't these people ever learn? Safety was, and always would be, such an illusion. They conquered the elevator in the same elementary fashion. Electricity buzzed through the Joker's veins as they rode up to the top floor. It was always the top floor. So predictable.

He strode out of the elevator purposefully, with his men following close behind. To his surprise, a set of newly installed double doors stopped him short. Those hadn't been there before. He tilted his head and sucked his bottom lip, considering them mockingly. "Nice, uh, décor," he sniggered. He was about to continue inside when he was stopped yet again, this time by a melody emerging from the other side of the great wooden doors. It was simple instrumentation, just a voice and piano, but wound its way inside his head and took root enough to halt his progression.

Dark, jazzy and melancholy, it appealed to him more than he could say. It's haunting harmony tickled his sinister tendencies, naturally, but also touched that long-suppressed side of him – the side that entertained the taboo thoughts of emotional intimacy._ I'd have sex to that music _suddenly sprang unbidden to his mind. He blinked and nearly recoiled. Where the hell had that thought come from? Since when did violent acts of carnality need a backing track? He shook his head violently and righted himself as the song ended and applause commenced. "There's our cue," he growled to his clowns, glaring menacingly and attempting to cover. "It's party time."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I own neither the Joker nor Bruce Wayne - both properties of DC Comics. The pianist, however, is all mine. _

They entered the room with a deeply satisfying bang. The horrified screams, the gasps, a crash or two, and then the panicked silence … he could almost hear their blood run cold. It was a familiar pattern that he could have orchestrated and conducted hands down, and was endlessly more pleasing to his ears than any melody, or so he told himself. He was unable to suppress the huge grin that his effect on the room incurred.

"Good evening, Gotham's shiny bits! My, don't you all look _ravishing_ tonight! Now, you'll cooperate with me, unless you want to end up in more, uh, _bits_." He giggled and checked the progress. Three of his strongest men were already upon Wayne, who had been standing just left of the doors. The remaining five were closing in on the entire group of guests from the perimeter. Perfect.

His voice fell to almost a whisper. "I want everything down, everyone out, no help gets called, and no one gets hurt. I just need to have a little, uh … _chat_ with Mr. Wayne here, I won't be ten minutes, then, then, then I'll be on my way, he'll be _fiiiine_, and you can resume your – your little – _party_. Provided, of course, that I haven't ruined the, ha, _at_-mos-phere." He snickered. "Don't you worry, my shiny little friends, I'm a man of my word. Now, get. Out." With that last word, his clowns roughly shepherded the trembling crowd, guests and wait staff alike, out of the huge, wooden double doors. It was a fairly straightforward operation – the guests were all young, vain, and willing to do anything necessary to save their own pathetic hides. Therefore, they were very cooperative, and not a problem case among them. It was a testament to how serious the Joker was about this operation that he didn't take advantage of their unnaturally strong senses of self-preservation. He was so tickled to see how twisted people could truly be. Oh well, some other time, perhaps.

The Joker lazily strolled over to the strong, thrashing form of Bruce Wayne, who was forced to his knees in the center of the room, but had already managed to throw off one of the goons upon him.

The Joker knelt down to face him. "Sh-sh-sh, Brucey, _Brucey_, calm down, calm _down_," he wheedled, patting Bruce's cheek. "I just wanna _talk_ to you. Can't we just talk? Listen – if this is about the fundraiser, I – I'm sorry I crashed it, but I warned them, I _really needed_ to talk to Harvey, just like I _really_ _need_ to talk to you now. So if you'll just relax, then I won't have to – "

"What the hell do you want?" Bruce Wayne spat angrily, cutting him off.

The Joker sighed and rolled his eyes. They would get nowhere this way. "I want …" he began, rummaging through his pockets with feigned nonchalance. In actuality he was working quickly, as he wasn't sure how much longer his men could hold Wayne back. "Hm, what I want … I just want … it should be … Aha, here we are," he said proudly, as he drew something from his deep trench coat pocket. "_This_ is what I wanted," he snarled as he brandished a dripping hypodermic needle. With one swift movement, he grabbed Bruce's chin, twisted his head to the side, and pierced his neck with the injection. Within seconds, Bruce stopped struggling.

"A mild sedative," he informed Bruce's reeling form. "Nothing lasting, no mental effects, just a _li_-ttle gift to help you – _relax_." Standing, he sighed again in mock exasperation, crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently. "_Now_ can we talk?" Bruce raised his head to stare defiantly into the Joker's face.

"I'll ask again, Joker, what do you want?" Bruce's voice was soft in his weakened state, but still menacing.

"You _sound_ like a, a broken record. But, ah, that's an easy one. _The_ _Batman_," the Joker whispered intensely. Bruce almost choked. Why he did so was unclear to the Joker, who simply raised a curious eyebrow.

"Why – why me? My stature allows me the privilege of unique contacts, but doesn't mean I have every citizen of Gotham on speed-dial, least of all the city's masked vigilante … that's a little obtuse, even for you, Joker."

The Joker did choke at that. Incensed, he circled Bruce like a bird of prey. "Even for _me_, you say? And how would you know _that_, hm? How would Gotham's richest citizen, Brucey Wayne, booming businessman and, ah, _playboy_ _extraordinaire_, know anything about the style, and those little, hm, _in-tric-a-cies_, of the Joker? Why would he _bother_ his pre-tty li-ttle head with the inner workings of a supposedly de_-luded_ criminal?" the Joker snarled, enraged. Spit flew from his mouth as he raved on.

"I let precious few in on that information, and, uh, your friend, Batboy? He's one of 'em. You've got an in. I'm not saying _how_, I'm not saying _why_, just that I know you do. And you're gonna give it to me." He finished, breathing heavily and running his tongue along his cracked lips. He lowered himself to Bruce's level once more, boring into him with his black eyes. Instantly, a deadly calm masked his demeanor. "Any questions or comments?"

Bruce was silent, his gaze unreadable. The Joker licked his lips again, waiting. This was interesting. He had been expecting some form of denial. When it was clear that Bruce wasn't going to speak again, the Joker sat back on his haunches and pulled out a small piece of paper from his pants pocket.

"Well, I suppose that's it, then. Now, these are my terms – stick to 'em, or prepare to, ah, be cut up into little pieces and stuck to your own _wall_. You'll hear from me within three days, and I expect my deadlines to be met." He waggled the small piece of paper in front of Bruce's face. "Can I trust you to not lose this, Brucey?" he asked patronizingly. He didn't wait for an answer. "No? Hm?" he asked, taking Bruce's chin in his hand and roughly shaking his head back and forth? "No. Okay. Can't say I'm, ha, sur-_prised_ – hard to rely on anyone these days," he muttered as he withdrew a large safety pin from his pocket. "This'll do all the work for you, I promise." He poked the pin through the small sheet of paper and leaned towards Bruce as if to pin it through his lapel. Pausing suddenly, he mused, "On second thought, it would be _such_ a shame to, ah, put a hole in such a _love-_ly suit. Trust me, I know the cost of custom formalwear these days," he mock-commiserated, "So, I'll do you yet another favor." Cruelty twisting his scarred features, he stabbed the pin into the exposed skin beneath Bruce's neck, where his top shirt buttons were undone. Bruce gasped and lurched in pain, but was otherwise defenseless. "You don't have to thank me," the Joker sneered. "Your face says it all."

Without warning, he became aware of an unpleasant sensation – a pair of eyes on his back. His temper instantly flared – his men were supposed to have ensured that the room was fucking _cleared_ – and he turned around slowly, his head set at an awkward angle and his fingers dancing towards his favourite knife. The gaze he met when he completed his rotation was not one he had been expecting. He was pleased and more than a little amused to meet the eyes of the pianist, whom he had forgotten about completely.

She sat at a beautiful grand piano on a raised stage at the far end of the room. As he slowly advanced towards her, it became obvious to him why she was still in the room – his clowns had been focused on evacuating the partygoers on the floor, and she had sense enough to not try and run with the Joker and three henchmen obstructing her path in the middle of the room. His anger slowly faded, and was replaced by morbid curiosity – which, when dealing with the Joker, was just as dangerous. He scrutinized her, analyzing and reading her effectively.

Tall and slim, bronze-skinned, impossibly long ebony curls, and clad in a little black dress; she cut an attractive figure behind the keys. Her stare was most peculiar – intelligent, obviously frightened, but curiously interested. Almost – _curveball! _– Impressed. He sauntered up to the edge of the stage, leaned his elbows on it and regarded her with blazing awareness. Even an act of such passivity radiated domination from his lithe figure. He was satisfied, but not surprised, to see her recoil slightly.

Winking at her, he drawled, "Play me something, beautiful." Then, suddenly, ironically, hilariously, she began pounding out the opening chords of a jazzed-up version of Tom Waits' 'Everything Goes To Hell' with admirable confidence.

Trying to catch the reference, the Joker blinked rapidly, before recognizing it and throwing his head back in one of his bouts of maniacal laughter. He appreciated the humor. He had, after all, asked her to play something for him, and there she went playing something _about_ him – it occurred to him that he should be mildly insulted, but it was just so unexpected that he could do nothing but laugh and feel something approaching flattery. A small smile tugged up the corners of her lips as she continued to play.

He tilted his head as he listened to her, considering her in a different light. The girl had balls, admittedly, not to mention talent. There was something incredibly alluring about the musician. Her bluesy, sensual voice and attack on the piano was very … feral, nearly erotic. But her performance calmed him, luring his thoughts away from her person, and he was just beginning to close his eyes when …

"Boss, it's been ten minutes." A masked head poked its way around the door. The piano stopped abruptly as the Joker opened his eyes and spun around. Dammit. He couldn't get mad at the guy; he was just following instructions … but hell, why now? He'd have to fabricate some reason to kill him later.

Striding past Bruce Wayne, he gave him a gentle pat on the head. "See you in a few, Brucey. Take it easy." He signaled for his men to release the weakened Wayne, who dropped to the ground on all fours, breathing heavily. The Joker and his henchmen made for the door. He paused as his long fingers curled around the handle, turning towards the other end of the room with a lascivious grin.

"As for you, gorgeous," he added, calling out to the pianist, "I'll see you around, I'm sure. Keep, ah, practicing." And with a last, frenzied giggle, he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer_**_: I own nothing but Ms. Victoria Simon. Shame._

As the door closed behind the Joker's lithe frame, the pianist flew from the stage, scrambled across the floor, and fell to her knees next to Bruce Wayne. "Mr. Wayne," she began in concern, "Are you alright?"

"I'll be fine, Ms. Simon," assured Bruce, slowly reaching a hand to apply pressure to his neck. A trickle of blood leaked from where the Joker had injected him. "It's you I'm concerned about. Just as much as the Joker is known to uphold his threats, he makes good on his offhand promises."

A shadow of fear crossed her elegant features, but she bravely waved away his comment. "Thank you for your concern Mr. Wayne, we'll deal with that a little later. Let's get you fixed up – should it be Alfred that I'm looking for?" she asked worriedly as she helped him to his feet, steadying his swaying form and then easing him into a nearby chair.

"Yes, Alfred will take it from here. Looks like he'll be back in any minute," he added as the frightened guests began edging back into the room. There were marginally less of them than there had originally been, the majority having scattered after the Joker had swept out. In a manner that showed that the trust in him was well placed, Alfred was in the room and next to Bruce's side in a flash. He assessed the damage and helped his employer and friend to his feet.

"Easy, Master Wayne. We'll have you up and about in no time." As he reached to help the mogul stand up, Bruce remembered the threat of danger and turned to the musician. Alfred paused, before turning to dismiss the rest of the guests in a classy gesture, and allow Bruce and the performer to converse. Alfred politely issued a promise for a better evening to the patrons … assuming, that is, that any of them would wish to return after the night's fiasco.

"Ms. Simon – the Joker's comment … at the very least, I'd like to call you a police escort to accompany you home."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, it's much appreciated." She swallowed, scared but trying to mask it. Bruce smiled kindly.

"Not to worry, they'll ensure your safety. It's the least I can do after such a beautiful performance. I'm sorry it ended with such a catastrophe, and that you had to play an encore … under duress."

Her eyes twinkled. "As strange as this sounds, I found it quite amusing, as did … he." Bruce chuckled.

"It was a risky move, but you did well. I'll make sure you're compensated for that. If you're willing, I would be honored if you'd play at one of my functions again."

"Hey, as a musician, every gig is a bonus," she joked. "Thank you."

--

The Joker hopped out of the still-moving van, skipping with satisfaction. "Deliver instructions … check!" He had made a fun evening out of an incredibly mundane task, and he was beyond pleased with himself. His good mood lasted as his men unlocked the heavily chained front doors of the hideout, it held up as he scaled the several flights of stairs to his chambers, and was still going strong as he threw open the door and strode into one of his spacious rooms. Then, as he swung himself into his chair, it abruptly fizzled out. He chewed his lip, disconcerted. He had delivered the instructions to Bruce Wayne, and now … he had three days to kill. _Now what? _It's not like he could terrorize Gotham – that would put him on bad terms with the Bat before their big meeting. It would screw up everything he had been working towards. But it would be so much fun … no. Unmasking the Bat would be much more pleasurable. Gotham would have to wait. And consequently, so would he. _Shit_. The Joker despised waiting.

Irritated, he rustled through his pockets reflexively. They were bound to hold something that would amuse him … He pulled out one of his knives, cleaning it on his vest. Absently, he carved a demented smiley face into the surface of his table. Then, he picked it up and threw it at the wall, where it landed with a satisfying thud. Well, that was fun. Shame it only lasted _two fucking minutes!_

His frustration increasing, his hands searched his pockets again. Clenching his fists in anger, he was startled when they closed around a thick piece of paper. _Right_, he had impulsively pocketed that at Wayne Manor. Heh, a little reading material. His interest piqued, he drew it out and studied it. The heavy cream paper proclaimed:

'**An Evening With Bruce Wayne, in support of the Gotham General Hospital Foundation, featuring renowned piano/vocalist Victoria Simon.'**

Ah. _Ah_. Bingo.

"Victoria," he mouthed. "Tori."

There … _there_ was his source of amusement for the next three days. Problem solved. Appear at her house? No, too predictable. He had a better idea.

Whirling out of the room, he banged his way down two flights of stairs and into what was best described as a living room. Two of his men were sprawled on a couch, lazily watching the flickering television. The Joker cleared his throat, and they both sprang up in fear.

"Just you," he beckoned to one of them. Barely suppressing a whimper, the man followed, the other clearly deflating with relief. The Joker allowed the man to follow him down the hall, then abruptly turned around, grabbed his shoulder and slammed him into the wall. He regarded the man intensely.

"Hey, buddy, got a little job for you. Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt ya, I'm in a good mood. Trust me, its easy stuff." His eyes never leaving the trembling man's, he forced the thick paper into his hand.

"Find out where she's playing next. I want the name of the place, and I want a seat. Come and find me when you're done." He released the man, and disappeared to his rooms once more. He threw himself into his chair, tapping his foot impatiently. Impressively, his man was back within five minutes, as he should have been. Good mood or not, no one dared to keep him waiting.

"So?" he asked impatiently, rising to his feet in anticipation.

"Its tomorrow night," his henchman replied tentatively, "Here's the name of the place and the directions. Your ticket's on its way."

The Joker's eyes lit up. "Tomorrow?" he screeched, clapping his hands together and throwing his head back with a giggle. "Tomorrow?" His cracked smile widened, and more giggles bubbled up out of his throat as he reached for a small piece of paper and a pen. The man stood there awkwardly as the Joker shifted his weight from foot to foot, leaning awkwardly over the desk and laughing sporadically as he scribbled something onto the paper. Sauntering over to the henchman, he patted his head.

"Good job, now, get _this_ – " he handed a small, folded note to the man – "Into her piano. Kill the delivery guy, steal his uniform, whatever. That's all," he finished, patting him on the head again and shooing him out. The guy was visibly relieved, recognizing that he had gotten off easy. His heels were barely off of the threshold when the Joker slammed the huge door shut behind him. Running the length of the room, the Joker threw himself into the far wall with a squeal of delight. Laughing maniacally at the sick thud, he savored the marriage of pain and pleasure as he slid to the ground. His spine-tingling laughs could be heard echoing throughout the entire building.

Looked like the next few days wouldn't be so boring after all.

_A/N: Thank you so much for reviewing. So many of the reviews have commented on specific aspects of the story, and I love it. Keep 'em coming - what you love, what you'd like to see happen, what you don't find so hot, etc. Thank you guys for your motivation!!_


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**: I've got nothing on Brucey and Mistah J - just Tori and the plot.

Approximately twenty-four hours later, Victoria Simon slammed out the last chord of her set at Gotham's popular music venue, Club 42. Adrenaline coursed through her as she leaned back in sheer delight. She lived for this. Music was her raison d'être, and nothing made her happier than working at her craft through the art of performance. The piano was her companion, her lover, and her partner in crime. Giving the ivory keys one last stroke, she laughed spontaneously. It had been a truly incredible evening.

The day had passed without incident or cause for alarm – after a police-escorted trip home the night before, her apartment had been searched, and additional safety measures had been taken. She was to report to the police via phone every twelve hours to ensure her safety. It was ironic … in trying to protect her from a psychopathic criminal, the cops almost had to treat her like a criminal herself.

Looking forward to a quiet night with a good book and a cup of tea, she thanked the audience amidst the appreciative applause. As she walked towards the wings of the stage, she met the eyes of the piano deliveryman, who was motioning frantically. She squinted through the darkness as he waved his arms, trying to mouth something to her.

"Clothes? Wha … oh, _close_!" she realized. Nodding her understanding, she turned back to the piano and made to close the beautiful instrument, when something caught her eye – a flash of white tucked into the golden harp. She reached for it, and her hand closed around a small, wrinkled piece of paper. Curiously, she unfolded it, scanning the messy black ink. Her breath caught in her throat as she read the haphazardly scrawled message:

_I heard you again tonight. I like the way you play.  
We should… play together sometime._

_- J._

Her knee-jerk emotional response was 'flattered', but then the ramifications of the compliment, and the compliment's author, caught up with her. "Shit," she whispered, as a tremor of fear involuntarily shot through her body. She spun around to search for the deliveryman, but he had disappeared. At that moment, his disappearance didn't register as suspicious. Instead, her sense of self-preservation kicked in. She wasn't safe here. Checking over her shoulder, she instantly abandoned the stage, trotting briskly down the stairs and integrating herself into the dispersing crowd. She was mentally kicking herself.

What the hell had she been thinking, egging the _Joker_ on like that? She should have played Fur fucking Elise or something, some neutral classical piece, something to appease him but make her instantly forgettable. Now he was stalking her, possibly at that very moment, and it was her own fault. She had practically given it her seal of approval. Yeah, it had been funny at the time, but by making herself memorable to him, she had practically tattooed 'shoot me' on her forehead. Fuck, now her _life_ was at stake …

"Stay with the crowd, and you'll be fine," she rationalized to herself, as she reached into her purse, grabbed her cell phone and began dialing the number that the GCPD had given her. Time to up the rank of security. She sighed inwardly. She hated conflict and had never been a shit disturber – she was royally pissed at herself, not to mention scared, at having wound up in a mess like this.

On the overhanging balcony one level above, hidden in the shadows, the Joker watched her with satisfaction. She was handling herself admirably. It went without saying that he loved to throw people into mortal situations, but it was rare that he got to watch them build up a protective front for themselves. To be fair, it was also rare that he gave them the chance. But this was a different case, with an accompanying different perspective for him, and strangely, he was enjoying it. Especially with this girl … she reacted quickly and efficiently. Despite the fact that she was obviously, justifiably terrified, her figure also radiated palpable anger.

That self-righteous frustration amused him endlessly. He could almost see the wheels turning in her head, under that mane of dark curls. He laughed silently to himself. After taking him on like that, she was surprised that she got such a … _warm_ reception from him? She was too much. But he was impressed by the manner in which she was taking control. She was clearly a … _doer_. Like him.

He shivered in pleasure and lascivious appreciation as he mentally revisited her stunning performance. Her way with music excited him. Again, he was struck by how untamed she seemed behind the piano, and how wild and organic her musical passion was. As she sang and played, he could almost … _feel_ it. Like a hot blade running across his flesh, caressing his scarred skin. He barely suppressed a gasp as an image of her flashed through his mind – naked, unable to control herself, arching her back in pain and pleasure as he applied himself to her in every way possible. A small growl escaped his throat as he felt himself grow hard. _Yesssss …_

With people these days, it was rare to find someone who had that kind of deep, all-consuming passion for _anything_. The only two people that came to his mind? Well first, obviously, himself, with his passion for anarchy and blowing shit up, and the second? Dear old Batsy, engaged in his torrid affair with justice and morality. Or whatever they were calling it now. He would kill to get Victoria to apply that passion to another aspect of her life – namely, him. Oh yes, he was planning to become an aspect of her life, and in a very big way.

His black eyes were locked onto her as she spoke into her cell phone, continually checking her surroundings and attempting to draw as little attention to herself as possible. His fingers itched as she exited through the front door, but he decided to let her alone tonight. He'd leave the police to their devices, let them create their usual façade of security, and he'd strike a little later. That way, when he finally sought her out in the ... flesh (another shiver of delight) ... he'd get the added zing of blowing up some extra policemen while he was on his unfortunate leave of absence from large-scale chaos.

He clenched his gloved hands in excitement, his knuckles cracking. This was just too much fun. He had her on edge now; it was almost time to close in.

--

Ten minutes away, Bruce Wayne sat in his private office, regarding the beautiful Gotham skyline through his floor-to-ceiling windows. His head fell into his hands as he massaged his aching temples. Against his will, he forced his eyes open and made himself read over the Joker's scrawled demands for what felt like the millionth time. He felt the familiar surge of anger as he scanned the psychopath's infuriating words, no doubt carefully strung together to incense him exactly as they were doing.  
_  
You and Batman are to go to the Gotham docks. I'll tell you when … later.  
Don't bring anyone else. If you do, I blow something up.  
Similarly, if one of you doesn't show, I blow something up.  
See, I have a little job for you. You fail? Simple. I blow something up. _

_On top of that, I'll bring Gotham to its knees once more. Then Batboy and I will continue on in much the same fashion as we did before. I have no objections to that, but I figure the idea of more deaths on his conscience might not suit dear Batsy so well, or you, for that matter, and I want to be fair. _

_Three days, Brucey! Say hi to Batshit for me. I'll be in touch._

_HA HA HA HA HA_

_- J._

--

**_A/N: I'm getting a lot of hits, which is incredible, but I crave some more reviews! Please take the extra time to let me know your thoughts. For those of you who are dedicatedly reviewing, thank you so much. Your well-thought-out comments are much appreciated. Happy reading and reviewing :)_**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Joker or Commissioner Gordon, they are both property of DC. Victoria is property of my brain!!

The following day, the beginning of the Gotham sunset sent warm rays of light dancing across the city, the sky splashed with dazzling shades of orange and pink. As a particularly powerful ray filtered through Victoria's bent blinds, it cut across her eyes and she woke with a groan. Rolling over, she propped her head up on her fist and glared crossly at her crooked blinds. Of course, it was her own damn fault – she had twisted the thing herself by peeking through every five minutes throughout the night, fearing the sight of a lean, hunched figure stalking across her fire escape. To her immense relief, he had made no appearance. However, that barely made up for the incredibly shitty, paranoid all-nighter-from-hell she had been forced to pull.

She sighed again, stretching her stiff limbs and considering the events of the previous night, feeling the fear beginning to creep back in. She mentally shook herself as she reminded herself that_ for the love of God she was well protected so calm the fuck down_.

From the club, she had been taken home by the GCPD in an unmarked vehicle, where they had then proceeded to outdo themselves. They had conducted an even more thorough search of her apartment (which she had yet to get back in order after they nearly tore the bloody thing apart), had installed locks on her windows and new ones on her doors, updated her alarm system, placed a few cameras around the apartment, and as a crowning glory, stationed a couple of guys in the lobby downstairs – one to watch the cameras, another to watch the door.

As they had buzzed around her apartment, she had approached Police Commissioner Gordon, who was overseeing the ordeal. Something was plaguing her.

"I want you to know how much I appreciate this effort, Commissioner," she began nervously. Unintentionally, the Commissioner cut her off.

"Not only is it our duty to protect our citizens, but it's our pleasure," he had replied with a kind smile. Victoria returned the smile uncertainly before continuing.

"But at the same time I think it's a little … extravagant. I'm sure your force doesn't have the time nor budget to put in this much work every time the Joker makes a threat, so … why don't you just relocate me, or something similar?" She was hoping he would answer in the negative as she really didn't want to upend her life like that, but she was curious. Gordon's features sobered.

"I didn't want to frighten you, but you deserve to know… This is the first we've heard from the Joker in weeks. Since his escape from Arkham, as far as we know, this has been his first and only threat. Now that we know he's still in Gotham, we fear that he's planning something big. We haven't yet been able to figure out how you're involved, but we have some idea. So, not only do we want to give you the utmost level of protection, but we're also hoping that if he makes another appearance, we might … uh …" He paused, looking slightly discomfited.

Ah. _Ah_. She was being used as _bait_. It didn't much bother her, though. She felt safer in her apartment then she would in some remote, unknown 'secure' location.

"I understand, Commissioner," she said smoothly. "I hope I can help you come to some conclusions." Gordon was visibly relieved and patted her shoulder somewhat awkwardly.

"Thank you, Ms. Simon. I regret that this had to happen to you, but I'm glad that we're dealing with someone as intelligent and level-headed as yourself."

But after the police had vacated and she was left alone in her battle-zone apartment, the level-headedness had disappeared. Enter paranoia.

She had spent her restless night alternately pacing (window-checking included), putting off cleaning, and seeking release in the form of the piano. Finally, as the dawn broke, she fell into a deep sleep. Currently, it was around 5 o'clock. She had slept for over ten hours, yet she hardly felt rested. Rolling out of bed and casting a critical eye over the state of her apartment, her gaze slid instead to her beloved piano, onto whose bench she slid with a sigh of contentment. Hopefully it would combat the onset of terror – she wasn't looking forward to nightfall.

She instantly felt herself loosen up as she ran some scales. Beginning to breathe easier, she segued into one of her original pieces, singing softly. As her voice warmed up, she sang louder and her relaxation increased. As the sunset deepened, she felt a twinge of pride, as the intervals of time between checking the fire escape grew smaller. Similarly, the apartment's usual creaks and bumps stopped disturbing her as she fell into the music completely.

She was so overtaken, so at peace, that when a gloved hand softly brushed the curls from her shoulder and hot breath caressed her cheek, at first she thought she was imagining it. It was only when she heard the voice – the husky reminder of last night's painfully fresh nightmares – that she froze in horror.

"We have to stop meeting like this," he breathed into the shell of her ear as he bent down next to her. Any sound or movement that may have emerged in attempted defense was stopped as she felt the cold blade of a knife on her cheek.

"You play so beautifully, I just couldn't resist. That's what I told the guys downstairs … but that didn't seem to cut it. So, I decided that I'd just have to, ah, _cut it_ myself." He giggled hoarsely, tracing his fingers gently across her brow. Her eyes flicked towards him as she took in his harsh, vibrant features. The skeleton-white skin, the hell-pit eyes, that perpetual slice of a smile.

"Victoria … can I call ya Tori? You look nervous … is it the scars?" Victoria finally found her voice.

Speaking carefully so as not to nick her face, she whispered, "No, it's the knife you're holding to my face." The Joker raised an eyebrow before exploding in laughter.

"Oh, Tori, of _course_ it is! How, ha, how _rude_ of me!" he mock-chastised through his giggles. "There … is that better?" He withdrew the knife and sat down on the bench next to her, shrugging his shoulders. "It's not for everyone." Startled by his response, Victoria met his gaze and took a deep breath.

"What …" she began, faltering. "What do you want from me?" The Joker sighed and rolled his eyes. Sucking on his cheeks, he smacked his lips before answering.

"You know how everyone's got that friend? The one that only calls ya when they _want_ something? Everyone seems to think _I'm_ that guy. And … I'm … not," he said, gazing at her intensely. She barely suppressed a shiver. "You already _know_ why I'm interested in you, girly. I've already _told_ you. Didn't you get my note? I just wanna _play_," he wheedled. Victoria had gained much of her composure back during his speech. She took a deep breath and considered him. He seemed unsettlingly earnest in his explanation, almost childlike, but she sensed the dangerous, feral passion behind the blandly innocent stare. It was disconcerting, but strangely interesting.

Her calm silence puzzled him. Biting his lip, he squinted at her with one eye before flicking his gaze towards the rest of her apartment.

"They, uh, did quite a number on your place, huh? I suppose that's my fault. I had a harder time walking over to the piano than getting past the so-called _security_." He turned his burning eyes back to her slender form. "So …?" he prompted, still waiting for her to respond.

His overall demeanor confused her. Yes, the man was undoubtedly terrifying and a psychopathic killer (those two worked in conjunction), but something about his fierce spirit threw her and her emotions for a loop. She was definitely scared, but also oddly fascinated by the colourful anomaly before her. However, at the same time, he was unpredictable. She had to tread carefully.

"So," she replied tentatively, "Here I am – here … we are. What … next?"

"Now _that's_ more like it," he growled, his eyes lighting up. "The next step? You're coming with me." He stood abruptly, striding towards the window. When he reached it, he turned around and raised an exasperated eyebrow at her. She hadn't moved.

"I'm not gonna take you by force, babe, I'm merely _suggesting_ that you move along if you don't wanna end up like your friends downstairs." He looked at her with something approaching sympathy. "And you seem like such a sweet girl, it would be _such_ a shame. Weigh your options, Tori."

As Victoria didn't have a death wish, there _were_ no options. Besides, this could prove interesting. She wouldn't deny that she was fascinated by his insanity-shrouded, innocence-masked craftiness. There was a fire behind those eyes, fervency; similar to the one she had seen burning behind those of her own reflection. She longed to see it in action. Slowly, she rose, and the Joker's omnipresent smile widened.

"Atta girl. Let's blow this popsicle stand." And with a press of a button that had suddenly materialized from his pockets, Victoria watched as her window exploded.

_**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm going to try for some lengthier updates. Also, I'm trying incredibly hard to maintain the reality of the situation. It's harrrrrd to to create a mutual interest between them without turning it into 'romance' - please let me know if I start straying and the Joker gets OOC at all. You know what to do ... review, review, review!! :D_


	6. Chapter 6

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I don't own the Joker ... psh. I wish._

The Joker's infamous laugh rang out as his cleverly placed explosive blew away the window and half of the wall. He scrunched his face up in delight and shook his head vigorously. What a rush. As the newly installed alarm system went haywire, he grabbed Tori's shaking hand and dragged her down the now debris-littered fire escape. "Come on, come on," he muttered excitedly as he tugged at her. "Before the pests come a-knocking."

Finally reaching the shadowy ground, he slipped a swatch of black cloth out of his pants pocket and jerked the musty fabric over her eyes. Tying it behind her head, he leaned in and whispered, "Sorry sweets, but it's for your own good. Wouldn't want to ruin the, ah, the surprise." Before she had time to react, he roughly swung her over his shoulder and trotted down the darkening street, bouncing her protesting form against his bony shoulder.

"I thought you said – no taking – by force," she commented wryly as his shoulder dug into her stomach. He giggled darkly.

"I did," he replied with amusement, "But that only app-_lied_ to leaving the apartment. You, uh, you followed me _quite_ willingly, Tori-girl. Now that we're on the _ground_-ah, we're playin' with a different deck. We're playing with _my deck_," he snarled quietly into her ear. His demeanor changed abruptly as he made a noise of approval.

"Here we are … just where I left her. What a goooood girl." The object of his cooing praise became apparent when Tori heard a door open and felt her body being shoved into a passenger seat. Or, what she hoped was the passenger seat. She sure as hell hoped he hadn't stuck her in the _driver's_ – although it was something she certainly wouldn't put past him. She felt a small twinge of amusement and gratitude as he took great care to ensure that her seatbelt was properly fastened.

A psychotic mass murderer … who cared that she was wearing her seatbelt. It was somewhat sweet and oddly reassuring.

Humming something tuneless and borderline frantic, the Joker raced around the front of the car, threw himself into the seat and hit the gas before the door had completely closed.

The approaching police sirens could clearly be heard in the distance, only egging on his performance. With a bark of deranged laughter, he swung the vehicle into a one hundred and eighty degree turn before careening down the street, Victoria gasping at the sudden movement.

His piercing laughs filled the van as he cut corners and burned rubber through the less-traveled streets of Gotham. Victoria was frozen in fear. If he wasn't planning to kill her by hand, then his driving would certainly do her in. He chatted animatedly while driving, disregarding her terrified silence.

"You know, Tori, you're technically not an _official_ hostage, but that's a little secret between you and I, and the best part is that Gotham's finest have no i-_dea_… I only _wish_ I could have been there to see the looks on their, ah, those otherwise smug little faces when they blasted open the _door_-ah to find the absence of your bee-_yootiful_ self," he sniggered.

"Just take a look at my face now," Tori managed to whisper through clenched teeth, "And I'm sure you'll see something similar." Sucking the insides of his cheeks, he tut-tutted disapprovingly.

"Look at you? Tori, as _gorgeous_ as you indisputably are, it would be, ah, quite ridiculously irr-es-_pon_-sible for me to take my eyes off the _road_-ah. Otherwise," he cackled, "I might do something like _this_!" He yanked the wheel to the left, causing the van to lurch sideways. Tori uttered a shrill scream, but it didn't cut through the sound of his screeching laughter.

"Oh, you're just too much _fun_, girly. But unfortunately, party time's over for now. We're here … home, sweet home." With one final, prolonged squeal of rubber on pavement, the Joker spun the van into some semblance of a parking lot, and hopped out. Opening Tori's door, he slung her over his shoulder once again as he locked the vehicle. This time, she was too shaken to comment on his rough handlings.

She heard the sound of several heavy locks being undone, felt the excited pounding of the Joker's heart (his _heart?_) as the stepped inside and a huge door thudded closed behind them. The grim finality of the sound sent a shudder down her spine.

Noting her discomfort, the Joker laughed to himself. Her fright was almost as lovely to behold as her performance. This thought made him shiver in anticipation of the evening to come – he planned to inspire both fear and passion in the intriguing musician. Lots of it. He grunted in pleasure as he began to carry her up the several flights of stairs, lost in his twisted sexual fantasies.

Victoria, now terrified, tried to focus on her breathing. _In … out … in … out … what … the … fuck was going to happen to her? _She had just avoided death by accepting to be kidnapped by the Joker … who had recently escaped from Arkham … who was a psychopathic, mass-murdering criminal of a clown … the more she thought about it, she more she wished she had just taken the easy way out and let him murder her back at the apartment. What had seemed like a desperate gamble for her survival was now clearly just a way to delay the inevitable. Either way, her story would have the same ending, and she was now deeply regretting the fact that she hadn't gotten it the hell over with.

His silence and sporadic groans were terribly unnerving, and yet trying to glean information from him seemed infinitely more petrifying. All she could hear were the uneven steps of his feet, climbing an innumerable amount of stairs, and his heavy, frenetic breathing.

Suddenly, the rhythm of his movement changed. His steps slowed, and the lean muscles in his back shifted as he reached to unlock another door. Her breathing became shallower. Wherever their destination was … they had arrived. Her heart jumped to her throat as they entered the room and he locked the door behind them.

Stepping into the high-ceilinged room, the Joker carried Tori across the concrete floor. She felt herself deposited unceremoniously on a flat, wooden surface.

She almost laughed. Whatever line he had fed her before about her not being an official hostage was obviously complete bullshit. This was clearly a classic hostage situation. Blindfolded, behind closed doors, carried to her doom … and now she was sitting on a hard, wooden chair. Ha-fucking-ha-ha-ha.

Before she could finish asking, "Is this the part where you torture me for information?" the blindfold was ripped from her face. She squinted at the sudden exposure of her eyes to light, looking frantically around her as her puzzling surroundings became clear.

They were in what appeared to be an incredibly high-ceilinged loft of an abandoned industrial building. To her left – a king-sized bed made up with suspiciously stained sheets. To her right – a vast expanse of dirty windows, looking out over the Gotham skyline. A desk was pushed against the far wall. In front of her stood the Joker, biting his lip and peering curiously down at her, his head tilted at an awkward angle.

"And behind you?" he asked quietly, reading her thoughts. Startled, she spun around on the hostage chair and was stunned to see her own pale reflection gaping back at her, reflected in the surface of the cleanest thing in the room – an enormous, sparkling grand piano. Staggered, she looked beneath her. The hostage chair was … a piano bench. She turned slowly to face the Joker, who regarded her critically, his eyes burning into her with an intensity that both frightened and captivated her.

"You wouldn't _believe_ the red tape I had to go through to get my hands on tha-_t_," he said drily, unsmiling. Victoria didn't respond. She couldn't – what was there to say, other than _what the fuck?_ She remained staring at him in mixed confusion, appreciation, and fear. The resulting expression that crossed her features was incredibly absurd.

"You know, Tori-girl, stupid is _not_ a good look for you," he commented. His arm shooting out, he grabbed her shoulder and roughly spun her back around to face the piano. Scooting right up next to her in a chair that seemed to have materialized from nowhere, he shrugged out of his purple jacket and leaned his elbow against the beautiful instrument.

Purposely quoting her words from earlier that evening, he dead-eyed her and whispered huskily, "So, here I am. Here … we are." He licked his lips as he leaned in closer, anticipating to be fascinated by her all over again. "Now … _play_."

His serpentine hiss lit a fire underneath her. It was, as all her feelings concerning him were, full of contradiction. Fear. Fascination. Anxiety. And a flicker of – if she had it right – _desire_. As soon as she put a name to the gnawing feeling, she knew she had it right.

Revulsion and intrigue conflicted in her brain. He was undoubtedly a hypnotic character – brilliant, controlling, _passionate_ … but now wasn't the time for such mental battles. She had a demand to fulfill, and she'd better damn well not disappoint. Alluring though he may be, she knew he had no qualms about disposing of her, should she bore him.

Taking a deep breath and closing her eyes, she raised her hands to the keys and began to play.


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N:_**_ Well, here it is, ladies and gents - a longer update as promised, dealing thematically with situations I have never before approached. It gets pretty hot :) Please review! Thank you so much for all your kind words - E N J O Y !_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own Commissioner Gordon, Batman, or the Joker - just Tori and the plot._

Victoria's apartment was the victim of a crime scene investigation extraordinaire. The small space swarmed with policemen, detectives and nosy neighbors either being questioned or wanting a piece of the action.

"I didn't even hear her door open," one wonderfully unhelpful neighbor told the police. "Of course, if she wasn't hammerin' away on that god-awful instrument all the live-long day, maybe then I woulda heard if some freak in make-up was makin' his way up there …"

"I heard the explosion and I came right over," another stressed neighbor commented agitatedly. "I knocked and knocked and knocked … but she wouldn't answer the door!" They obviously had their sequence of events slightly muddled.

And of course, everywhere, awed and terrified whispers of 'The Joker' sliced through the air… no one could seem to believe that the madman had been in _their_ building. In the most demented way, a mild sense of fame and celebrity hung in the air, adorning the inhabitants of the complex with a sense of pride nearly as demented as the man who inspired it.

In the midst of the unholy mess stood Commissioner Gordon, the unfortunate victim of a raging headache. Mercifully, it had been a good long while since he had felt this low – but to be realistic, the Joker had been in Arkham for that interval of time, and therefore Gordon and the force had automatically been spared. But now, it seemed that the maniac was back and in full swing.

It scared Gordon more than he was willing to admit; that the police had no idea what the Joker was planning. Usually, by now, they would have received one of his infamous home videos, or some sort of bloody trail, or any lead of any kind. But this time – nothing. Nothing but the threat and disappearance of one young woman, who was seemingly unconnected to anything.

Gordon knew he had done a terrible wrong by not giving Victoria Simon better protection from the force. It was a marked slide in his standard of care – he usually didn't take stupid risks like that. It had been downright selfish, what he'd done, using the innocent girl as bait like that. But without Batman, running the force was a different experience. He found himself taking measures he would, in a better frame of mind and a better state of Gotham, have deemed foolish and irresponsible. Without Batman … things seemed utterly hopeless. He sighed and angrily willed away the tears that threatened to fall.

He sunk into the nearest seat, the bench of Victoria's piano, and picked up a few sheets of manuscript paper. Flicking through them, he surveyed some of the young pianist's compositions. _So young …_

This time, he couldn't stop the tears from forming. Tears of disappointment, rage, despair. Closing his eyes, he swore to himself they would find her. He couldn't let the Joker unravel Gotham again.

--

The pianist in question was currently attempting to clear her mind and focus in on her performance. She seized and hung onto the first song that emerged from her consciousness, wryly thinking that she was about to give the performance of her life. Or rather, the performance _for_ her life.

The song that flowed out was, curiously, Joni Mitchell's 'A Case of You.' As she began to sing in her bluesy tone, she noticed the Joker tilt his head and lean back slightly, regarding her with that impenetrable, evaluative stare.

As accomplished a performer as she was, Victoria was painfully self-conscious while she played. It was something she had never quite managed to overcome from her teenage years, and as a result, was always unsettled when people sat too close to her while she was at the piano. So, as the presence of the average person looming over her shoulder flustered her, having a homicidal, sociopathic clown at her elbow came as more than a bit of a shock. Especially while she was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown. Still, fighting against her body's natural urge to tense up and flee, she rose to the occasion and played stunningly. Her warm, honeyed voice rang out through the echoing room as the piano softly accompanied.

Finally having the opportunity to observe her performance's effect on the Joker firsthand, she stole a glance at him. By now, he had made his interest in her abundantly clear, and she was keen to see the effect of music on his infinitely complex mind. The fact that he felt so connected to it was just one more thing that drew her to him, against her will and better judgment. Turning her head slightly, her eyes met his piercing gaze.

His eyes, as usual, smoldered dangerously, two bright coals that threatened to set the world ablaze. However, as she sang and continued to stare into them, something about the fiery pits changed. It was strange – they seemed to grow darker and almost liquidate as the song progressed. The concentration in them continued to rise perilously high, and she had to look away for fear that it would slice her in two.

When she dared to look again a minute later, she was startled to see that his eyes were closed and his head was leaning back. His slender frame swayed gently, not to the beat of the music but to some seemingly internal rhythm. She was amazed – his usually excessively energized features were no longer analyzing, appraising, manipulating. He looked so content, so at peace. Relaxing slightly, she let her eyes fall elsewhere as she immersed herself in the piece of music.

But this was the Joker she was dealing with, and she was making an enormous oversight by assuming that his features mirrored his inner thoughts. In contrast, his scarred visage betrayed absolutely none of what he was feeling.

The Joker was in a state of internal chaos. It was an experience utterly foreign to him – he had never been on the receiving end of disorder, least of all disorder of an emotional nature. He didn't like the idea of falling victim to anything, let alone a _feeling_ of this nature, but at the same time was obtaining an almost perverse enjoyment from it.

All because of this girl, the hypnotic quality of her musical ability, and her unbridled passion that turned to lust in his mind … She was under his skin in a way that no one had ever been – he almost felt _controlled_, and, shit …he almost _liked_ it …

_Oh you are in my blood like holy wine_

Yes, he had heard her play and had heard her play again, but he had never been this close to her while she was working her magic. Her effect was painfully, deliciously intoxicating. He had never felt so drawn to anyone or anything before, and was suddenly overcome by an inexplicable need to touch her, taste her.

_Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet_

Confused, he tried to combat the urge, but nearly everything in his being was screaming that he would break apart completely if he didn't make physical contact. Reaching towards her, his hand froze suddenly, for a reason he couldn't articulate to himself. But he didn't have to – his body's motive became instantly clear.

_Oh I could drink a case of you..._

Seeming to move with a mind of its own, the fingers of his other hand gingerly, gently tugged off the leather glove covering the other. Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, his cool, dry hands met soft flesh as he trailed his artistic fingers along her delicate swan's neck. He heard her breathing hitch; and yet she continued to sing. _Good girl._

Caressing her jaw line, he was eerily fascinated by the rhythmic movement of her mouth around the lyrics and was excited to see her eyes drift slowly shut.

_I could drink a case of you, darling_

She lazily tilted her head back, clearly savoring his touch, and the submissive gesture caused a growl to rise from his throat.

_And I would still be on my feet_

He didn't want the song to end, but at the same time he couldn't wait for it to finish so he could have his wicked way with her. She was an infuriating combination of teasing aphrodisiac and a manifestation of sex all at the same time. He could barely contain himself … he was dying to hear her scream.

_Oh I'd still be on my feet_

The last few bars of the song seemed a sweetly agonizing eternity to him as he shifted his body onto the bench next to her. Taking hold of a fistful of her curls, he trailed his tongue along the outside of her ear, reveling in her unreadable shudder, before speaking.

"Still be on your feet, eh?" he whispered huskily. "Something tells me you'd be flat on your ba_-ck_." The last syllable cracked like a whip across her skin. He regretted not being able to see her eyes as her body gave off another shudder, more pronounced this time. A quick smile flashed across his focused face before he finally began to fulfill his urges.

In one movement, he jerked her head backwards by her hair and covered her cry of pain with his mouth. He forced his tongue into her mouth with a groan of predatory satisfaction, eagerly exploring the source of the mournful, elegiac melodies that held and twisted him so mercilessly.

"Come on, come _on_," he thought impatiently, anticipating her body's response. She remained relatively passive – reciprocating, yes, but not in the wild way that he craved. His countless fantasies of her wild passion played through his mind like a filmstrip run at hyper speed. He was almost sure that the untamed creature he had seen behind the piano would come out when called … and if this wasn't calling, he didn't know what was. He certainly couldn't have been wrong in his analyses of her.

Would he be able to provoke her into it, perhaps? His constantly moving fingers clenched deeper into her hair, as he ravaged her mouth with increasing ferociousness. It was like waiting for a bomb to go off. Story of his life. _Oh, the irony_.

_Time to kick it up a notch …_

Taking her bottom lip in between his teeth, he bit down hard. As his mouth filled with her blood, he felt rather than heard her gasp. It was like he had flicked on a fucking switch.

Her hands shot up behind him and wound themselves tightly into his stringy, green-tinged strands as her mouth matched his in intensity. Now _that_ was more like it.

The tension of her grip impressed him – she was, after all, a piano player, so it shouldn't have come as too much of a shock. What else were those hands capable of? Something about this thought, combined with the painful burning in his scalp and the throbbing bulge in his pants, caused something to snap within him.

Enough with the preliminaries – it was time for the main attraction. Untangling his long fingers from her hair with slight difficulty, he withdrew his mouth from hers and pushed her shoulders down, effectively lying her down on the piano bench. Straddling her, his stomach jumped in excitement when she made an unexpected move. Staring straight into his eyes, she grasped his elbows and lurched, throwing them both to the cold, concrete floor.

He yelped in pleasure and giggled frenetically, murmuring nasally, "Ooh, I think I've found me a _good_ one." Pinning her to the ground and reaching to undo his pants, his hair hung in ropes around his face as he regarded her, licking his lips licentiously.

"Now lie back, Tori-girl … this won't hurt a bi-_t_."

Words couldn't express the sense of depraved delight that flooded through him as the ever-unpredictable Victoria uttered a sound somewhere between a giggle of pleasure and a moan of fear.

Dragging her nightdress up her hips and yanking her panties aside, he looked down at her with satisfaction. He had been right about her. The poor thing wouldn't know what hit her … but she was going to love it.


	8. Chapter 8

Victoria's scream echoed throughout the abandoned warehouse. Men on all floors looked up towards the sound, shivering in a combination of fear and arousal, a blend of sensations favored by their unpredictable employer. In their pathetically limited experiences with women, there was one thing of which they could be certain – only The Joker could make a woman scream like that.

Several floors above, Victoria cried out again as the Joker slammed into her with deep, forceful strokes. The power of his thrusts forced the pair of them across the rough concrete floor, rubbing raw the skin of her shoulder blades and scraping the knees of his purple pants. Her head thrashed from side to side, in mixed pain and pleasure. The dizzying sensation seized her senses and mercilessly conquered every nerve ending in her body, performing the very purpose intended by her deviant captor. The back of her head was dragged across the floor in matching rhythm with the strokes of his lean figure.

Barely aware of her own actions, she reached up towards him and grabbed onto his tie, causing his head to lurch forward. She met his mouth with her own, ferociously. A deep laugh rumbled in his throat as he nipped at her again.

Pulling away momentarily, the Joker braced an arm beside her head. With his free arm, he reached for her face and grasped her jaw.

"Look at me," he hissed with a groan. Her head lolled to the side as her frenzied gaze met his. He waited for eye contact before continuing, small grunts punctuating his intense growl. "It may interest you to know, Tori-girl, that this is as much about my revenge as it is my gratification. I want to see the eyes of the beautiful musician when I get under her skin the way she got under mine … while I'm making her scream. I want to see her unravel. I want to watch her –" here he paused and kissed her hungrily, " – want to watch her fall apar-_t_." She tasted so good – sweet and faintly of blood. _Her_ blood. He growled and burrowed further into her mouth.

He wasn't expecting her to reach down, wasn't expecting to feel those hands squeezing his balls tightly. A bark of mirth and pleasure escaped him, and he giggled dementedly, "Mmmm, Tori, that's no-_t_ very nice. I _like_ it." In response, he roughly grabbed one of her breasts and twisted, reveling in her ardent reaction.

They continued their violent progression across the floor until the top of Tori's head collided with the footboard of the bed, coinciding with the Joker's release. With an enormous groan, he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, hard. Victoria, spent, could do nothing but stare up at him as he breathed into her face.

"What'd I tell ya, Tori-girl. Flat … on … your … _back_." He closed his eyes briefly, inhaling her scent, before opening them and flicking his tongue across her lips. Rolling off of her, he quickly zipped up his pants and regarded her with interest, calculating what his next use of her would be. The lyrics from her performance suddenly sprung to his whirring mind. _I could drink a case of you, darling …_

_Aha_ … there was an idea. It wasn't something he engaged in often, but he was keen to find out what she tasted like. Mirroring the behavior of a tiger with its prey, he allowed her to sit up weakly, tentatively, before scooting towards her and batting her back into her prone position. As her head hit the floor, her eyes met his, and this time, he saw terror. How desperately amusing.

He noticed that her head was pushed up against the footboard of the bed. _The bed…_ Grinning slightly, he reacted abruptly. The unexpected movement startled her, and she uttered a strangled cry as he grabbed her around the waist.

She was anticipating pain, so she was all the more surprised when she felt her body lifted off the ground and hit a soft, springy mattress. He had thrown her onto the bed, and now – dear God – he was crawling towards her, a look of pronounced lasciviousness gracing his scarred features. _Again? _Yes, it had been incredibly pleasurable, but she was in a considerable amount of pain as a result … Instinctively, she backed up against the headboard, shaking her head vehemently.

"You …" she choked. "I – I can't –" she pleaded, as if it would stop him. He paused, a stern look clouding his expression of disturbingly childish horniness.

"You can't … what?" he responded jeeringly. "Lie _down?_" With that last word, he suddenly threw himself towards her and swiftly pinned her beneath his body. Tracing her features with his one ungloved hand, he continued lightly, "Ah, you know, my pretty little pianist, you really shouldn't _assume _things. Do you want to know why, hm?" He raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, regarding her in mock seriousness. Not waiting for an answer he continued, "Because it makes an _ass_ out of _you_ and _me_. And I don't … respond well to mockery." His voice deepened. "So I advise you that it would in your _best_ interests to lie back and shut u-_p_."

Despite her fear, she closed her eyes, trembling. His tone lightened instantly. "Good girl. So, I suppose you want to know what's going to become of you now?" A spasm of alarm passing over her features at his choice of words, she pressed her lips together and nodded silently. "Figures," he commented. "For some reason, they _all_ want to know that. So, here's the thing," he continued, smacking his lips with relish. "Now that I _have_ you, I'm going to make you do what it is you do best. I'm going to make you _sing_."

Lying half naked on a bed on her back didn't seem like the most logical performance arrangement to Tori, especially since she had already sang for him. What the hell was he talking about?

"Oh, no, not like you sang for me before, little bird" he continued, reading her mind yet again. "That was, ah, undeniably in-_tox_-icating, but not what I _crave_ at the present moment. This time around, I'm gonna make you sing a different tune."

Oh, she didn't doubt that. She shivered at the ominous images that his choice of words conjured, still not understanding. He sighed exasperatedly. "I see I have to _spell_ it out for you." Leaning uncomfortably close and breathing into her ear, he whispered hotly, "I'm going to, ah, _drink a_ _case_ of you, Tori-girl. Thanks for the idea."

She gasped softly in sudden understanding, a thrill of an unnamable feeling running through her body. He couldn't possibly mean … but no, his insinuations were confirmed as he pushed her legs apart. She certainly hadn't seen _that_ coming. Her eyes snapped open just in time to see him lowering his colourful, concentrated and clearly anticipatory face in between her thighs.


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N:_**_ I apologize for the disgustingly long break - life can be pure insanity, as I'm sure you can all agree. Here's the latest installment - I hope you enjoy. As always, feedback is a MUST :) Teehee. Please, please please review if you read. Again, enjoy!_

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I own nothing but the plot. Tori is co-owned by Mr. J and myself._

**Chapter 9**

It could have been minutes or hours later when he finished – Tori had lost her sense of time somewhere during the course of his incredible ministrations. True to his character, his mouth had asserted itself as more hungry than tender, yet still worked her with a finesse and subtlety that she hadn't expected from him. That constantly mobile, serpentine tongue hid some pretty intense tricks, there was no doubt about that. Breathless, she raised herself up on her trembling elbows to look down at him in incredulity. He met her gaze with a smirk of dark self-satisfaction.

"Don't tell me that nobody's ever, ah, _done_ that to you before," he deadpanned delicately.

"Not … like that," she whispered hoarsely, unable to suppress the small smile that insisted on tugging up the corners of her lips.

He giggled at her expression, and then, as if a switch had been flicked on, his crazed grin was abruptly cut off and was replaced with his enigmatically intense gaze. He spoke languidly, quietly, commanding focus as always.

"You know why you're here, Tori-girl?" He scooted on top of her, pinning her as he spoke, folding his arms under his chin and laying them on top of her breasts. The full weight of his body pressed her into the mattress, restricting her oxygen intake and forcing her to focus all her attention on him as he lay directly on top of her. As if the severity of his character and captivating presence weren't enough.

"I know exactly why I'm here," she replied as she struggled to catch her breath under him, giving him an answer he neither expected nor agreed with. "For a performance and a fuck. Unless there's something else you want with me …" Too late, she realized that she should have held her traitorous tongue. But to her immense surprise, he didn't take the bait that she so blindly, foolishly offered him.

"No, no, I don't mean the _idiot's_ reasoning," he countered smoothly, shutting her down effectively. "That's just what I chose to _do_ with you after you, ah, a-_greed_ to waltz right out your front door with me."

Wow, he _really_ wasn't going to let her forget that one.

"What I _mean_," he continued quietly, "Is the actual reason I chose to spend my precious time seeking out and, ah, playing with a laughably dis-_pos-_able thing like you." His impossibly dark eyes glinted with malevolence, and she shivered palpably.

Silently, she shook her head in response. She had no idea what the hell he meant, and not speaking seemed like the wisest thing to do at this point. She didn't know where he was going with this, but it was hinting at some pretty ominous trails that she had no interest in exploring.

Perhaps it was this thought that sparked the realization of who the man truly was. All at once, the magnitude of her situation descended upon her with the force of a piano dropped from the top floor of a building. It was strange how fucking him had obliterated her common sense. He made for a pretty powerful roll in the hay, but, shit, the man was a serial killer, terrorist, psychopath, and then some. Hell, he was the fucking _Joker. What the fuck was she doing? _The considerable weight of his body on top of hers did little to ease this pressure, and her breathing became shallower.

His dangerously silky tones cut through her frantic thoughts. "In your sweet little delirium, you may or may not recall hearing me mention that you weren't an off_-ic-_ial hostage."

Tori nodded in mute response, trying to control herself despite her increasing waves of nauseating horror, and he continued. "Here's what that means…" Rolling his eyes, his tongue darted out across his lips as he shrewdly ran through his thought process one final time.

He had fiercely debated with himself whether or not he should tell her this. Though he was usually against displaying such honesty unless absolutely necessary, a larger part of him was curious to see how she would react. In a way, she almost deserved to know. Her reaction would surely be interesting, to say the least. Taking a deep breath, he worked his lips and rolled his eyes around disconcertingly before beginning.

"In this _love_-ly little shithole of a city, I don't often … or _e_-ver … come across people with the kind of passion that you have for your music. Of course there's people like _me_, there's freaks like the _Bat_ … but people in general – these people have no, ah, _focus_. They're a bunch of watered down sheep, running around without any semblance of purpose-_uh_." He paused, his tongue swiping his lips again. "The type that, should they find themselves in _your_ place, I would ordinarily fuck and obliterate as close to simultaneously as possible."

He could have cued the look of disgust and terror that flashed painfully across her face, his reward for his previous statement. God, how he loved fear. He allowed himself a small giggle, gleefully twisting the knife of his intentionally horrifying comment, before continuing.

"But you," he continued, drawing out his syllables in a sing-song fashion, "You, dear Tori, you have this, this _energy_, and it sets you apar-_t_. None of that, none of that passive dilution … you're all fire, and I _like_ it," he growled possessively. "Just look at how you fuck," he snorted mirthfully.

This time, despite her terror, she blushed.

"Tori, the way you play _controls_ me. I've _ne_-ver watched anyone the way I've watched you, and I still know there's more to see. More songs to play on the little pianist than, ah, meets the _eye,_" he uttered in an eerily quiet, lilting tone, trailing a still-ungloved finger slowly down the bridge of her nose. He lowered his face to hers, their skin almost touching. "You're marked as unofficial because there's no real impetus for keeping you here." He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as his voice momentarily lightened and his vocal tics disappeared. "So, uh, keep that in mind before you _fuck__ around_ with me."

Tori swallowed with difficulty and nodded. She wouldn't dare. More than exciting her, the man positively terrified her.

The Joker noted her assent with approval, eyebrows raised. He continued, his voice lowering to its former intense huskiness.

"So, this isn't about money. Not about a plan. Not even about sex-_uh_." He paused, smacking his lips with that last, emphatic statement. A look of brief worry creased his face, before he shook his head violently and amended his words. "Well, not _entirely_ about sex. You're here because ... I want ... to get into your head-_uh_." He brought his face impossibly close to hers. "You and I are gonna play again, Tori-girl. And you and I are gonna play again … _soon_."

Victoria's shiver was laced with a touch of flattery. What he had just said was creepy as all hell, and she had no idea what to make of it, other than the fact that it sounded like the closest thing to fondness that his unpredictable psyche could likely achieve. However, despite the deeply sinister undertone of his words, she had never experienced anything like him and his inexplicable complexities before, and so was only mildly startled to realize that she wanted to play again very, very much.

As well, it's not like he had offered her very much of a choice. Her stomach turning unpleasantly, her brain hit the wall of reality again and she began to wonder what his plans were for her accommodations as this 'unofficial' pet. It was likely that he would keep her locked away somewhere in the building, hopefully away from his probably horny henchmen. Death alone would be a preferable fate.

And when the Joker was done with her … no. She quickly cut off that thought process before it perpetuated. It was far too corrosive, and pondering that line of thought would do nothing but drive her crazy. If the Joker were planning to keep her as a so-called 'unofficial hostage', it would be in her best interests to maintain as much of her sanity as possible while in the company of pure insanity.

Though she was beginning to wonder how much of it was truly craziness, and how much of it was purely an ongoing, clever maneuver to counteract the humorless stoicism of the Batman.

That was irrelevant. He was probably going to keep her as an unofficial hostage, fuck her frequently, and kill her off when he was tired of her. She swallowed as her concentration of fear increased, but she still said nothing. Provoking him again, especially by accident, would be a bad idea.

"Nothing to say, hm?" he commented, quirking his mouth. "Well then," he continued as he rolled off of her swiftly, swinging his lithe legs over the side of the bed so his back was facing her, "I'm gonna let you go, Tori-girl. But as I said before, we'll be seeing each other again very, very soon."

Her stomach flipped again, more severely this time. Had she heard him correctly? He didn't just say that ... Slowly, disbelievingly, she began to raise herself on her elbows once again.

Still with his back to her, he added mischievously, "Mission two is to fuck you _while_ you're playing. You'd better clean up your apartment and start practicing for that one, Tori." A dark cackle followed this statement, then silence. He seemed to be twirling something, playing with it in his nimble fingers, but Victoria couldn't see what it was.

She waited a painfully long few seconds, unclear as to whether or not he was going to direct her to an exit. Would it be too dangerous for her to just walk out? Clearing her throat tentatively, she began to stutter. "So, uh, should I just … do you want me to … where should I …"

A spine-tingling laugh exploded from the Joker's frame, shattering the dangerously delicate silence. It caused goose bumps to spring up and make their rapid progression across Tori's already shivering flesh.

The Joker shook mirthfully for several minutes, still facing away from her, before calming down enough to spit out a choppy sentence. "Oh, Tori, Tori, my little Tori-girl, you're too _much_. How, how _rude_ of me, to leave you feeling so unclear. _I'll_ be, ha, taking you home, of course."

A look of confusion flitted over Tori's face. "You will?" she asked, seeking confirmation.

He did not reply, still wheezing with convulsions of amusement. His silence was unsettling.

"Uh … thanks," Victoria continued slowly. Something about the spirit in which he made the offer left her feeling more than a little uneasy.

"No problem," the Joker answered, his voice betraying the fact that there was still a huge smile stretched across his colorful palette of a face. And with those simple words sealing the deal, he sprang in one fluid movement, faster than Tori would ever be able to react in defense.

The Joker spun around on the bed, grabbed a handful of Tori's curls, jerked her forward and brought the butt of a pistol down against the back of her head with frightening force.

She was launched into oblivion with the single blow. Exploring her skin with exquisitely detailed interest and care, the Joker trailed his fingers across the map of her skin much more than was necessary. He hadn't left much of a mark – a true professional, he thought to himself with characteristically perverse pride.

Standing up, he hopped off the bed, moodily stalking around to the other side. She was so much fun; it was a shame he had to take her out like that. But he couldn't have her lying around while he was engaged in operation Bruce Wayne. She was lucky – if he hadn't been in his current love triangle with Bruce and the Bats, she likely would have been a live-in.

Or a die-in, as most of them so often were. Ha. He giggled quietly at that. Fascinating though she may be, the Joker was easily ... distracted.

Flipping her body over, he scrutinized her limp form with a lascivious sigh. He could always give her another go before he played chauffeur … His zipper was down, his belt undone, before he decided against it. It would be a real letdown in contrast to the explosiveness of the previous time. It was definitely better to remember her that way, and let the anticipation build until their next meeting. He could hardly wait to have his way with her again.

He hoisted her up and swung her over his shoulder with ease. Unable to resist her scent, he turned his head slightly to the side, and noticed that her nightgown was still hitched up around her waist. Hungrily, he ran his tongue across the smooth surface of her upper thigh before sharply jerking the hem of the garment downward in a possessive gesture. Just in case they ran into his men on their way out. He didn't want them getting any ideas.

Instinctively, a jealous growl rumbled in his throat. Victoria was to be his, and his alone.


	10. Chapter 10

_The plot .... she thickens ... :) REVIEW!!!_

**Chapter 10**

Amongst the ransacked contents of the semi-exploded apartment and the haphazard nets of Gotham Police Department crime scene tape, Victoria slept soundly. She slept so deeply that when Commissioner Gordon found her curled up on her piano bench, having returned for the morning's reevaluation of the scene, his hoarse yell of disbelief scarcely disrupted the rhythm of her breathing.

At her unresponsiveness, Gordon immediately feared the worst. Trampling the contents of the apartment that were strewn across the floor, he collided with the side of the piano and dropped to his knees in front of her. Clad in just her nightgown, she was breathing steadily and there were no apparent injuries, yet she did not stir. Dear God, it was his own fault for using this young girl as bait for the fucking _Joker_ –

"Victoria," he croaked, shaking. She didn't respond. Louder, he tried again. "Victoria!"

To his relief, she jolted awake instantly, albeit in a state of extreme disorientation. Shooting upright and swaying noticeably, she scanned her surroundings without comprehension. Then, her eyes focused on Gordon and she emitted a sudden gasp. Coughing, she struggled to speak, but whatever she began to say was immediately cut off by a groan of pain. A hand shot to the back of her head, and she sank back into her prone position on the bench.

"Oh _shit_ … ugh … the fuck, …" she moaned as she clawed helplessly at the back of her head, her voice muffled by her disheveled curls.

Reacting instantly, Gordon rose and quickly pushed her hair from her neck.

"It's alright, Victoria, he's gone. You're safe now," he soothed her, as he inspected the damage. He had been in this force long enough that he automatically suppressed the gasp of horror that threatened to bubble to the surface as he took in Victoria's injury. A large, purple-yellow bruise had blossomed just beneath her hairline, nearly covering the entire back of her neck. The dark, sickly-tinged colors were spotted with angry red and crowned by a swollen welt.

Yes, Gordon could suppress the horror. It was the rage, however, that he had never managed to condition himself against. That sick, deluded bastard. That he could evade justice and damage a young, innocent creature infuriated Gordon so much that he had to consciously will his hands to stop shaking.

He assessed that the bruise was the extent of her injuries, and then slowly brought her into an upright position. Working efficiently, he moved through the remnants of Victoria's apartment, fetching a glass of water and preparing a cold compress.

"Thank you, Commissioner," she said quietly, grimacing as she applied it to the wound.

"You're safe now," he repeated, the slight tremor in his voice displaying his shaken state. He slowly paced back and forth in front of her, steeling himself. "And this time, we're going to make sure it stays that way."

Victoria didn't answer; she simply closed her eyes, assailed by a fresh wave of pain. Gordon spoke again, positively overwhelmed by guilt.

"Victoria, I – I'm so sorry to have not relocated you initially. I'm not asking you to understand my thought process, but I just thought – I blindly thought that we could catch him, protect the city from him for good. It was utterly wrong for the force to put you at risk like that – "

"I understand, Commissioner," Victoria answered, cutting him off gently. "I appreciate your efforts to protect Gotham, and I was even glad to be of assistance in that regard, but – it was a terrifying experience."

Gordon nodded sympathetically, and was silent. He dropped his gaze, allowing Victoria to relax slightly.

His silence was an immense relief. Victoria's heart was pounding. She was sure that if Gordon couldn't read its traitorous rhythms, then her emotions were spelled out in her eyes, despite the fact that they were obstinately closed. Her dizzying thoughts were in almost painful disarray.

First off, she had no recollection of how the evening had ended. She had no memory of how she had gotten back to her apartment. She was aware that the Joker could appear in her apartment at any moment, and other than a flickering of nauseated excitement, she wasn't sure how she felt about that. Furthermore, how the entire situation was going to play out from here was a complete mystery.

However, she did know that she was scared by the potential action that the police were going to take. That frightened her even further – if she couldn't take comfort in the solidarity of the justice system, then where the hell could she find reassurance?

Her own questions were too much for her to handle; yet, she knew she must conquer them quickly. A police interrogation surely wasn't far away, and with the inability to gain control over her own thoughts, Victoria had no idea how she would hold up under the pressure of something like that.

"_Why don't you ask your fuck-buddy, the Joker?" _a snide inner voice asked bitingly. She winced again, acknowledging the degree of truth behind her own cruel sarcasm. She had no words that wouldn't betray her – in fact; she doubted she had any words at all. Occupying the only vacant space in her head, burned permanently into the structure of her mind, was the single image of the Joker pounding into her viciously. A small thrill coursed through her at the thought, and she squirmed slightly.

"Victoria? Are you alright?" Gordon asked in concern, cutting through her thoughts.

"Yes, sorry, I'm – I'm fine." She opened her eyes with these words, afraid to make herself seem suspicious by keeping them closed for too long. The look in Gordon's own eyes told her what was coming next, and she shrank back slightly.

"Please let me know if there's anything I can get you, especially over the next little while. Now, I know it may be difficult for you to relive the situation, but we're going to need to obtain as much information as possible. Whenever you're ready, we're going to take a trip down to the station so I can ask you a few questions."

--

After yet another sleepless night, Bruce decided that the only way to handle this situation was the way he usually tried to avoid – chance. But the risks, and the bluffs, were borne out of necessity. He could think of no other alternative but to show up as Batman, bluffing that 'Bruce Wayne' was with him until he accurately assessed the situation. He knew it was lame and it wouldn't hold the Joker off for long, and yet, it was his only option. The option of enlisting someone to pose as Bruce Wayne was out of the question – he couldn't endanger anyone like that.

Lost in his thoughts, the slamming of an object into his twenty-story-high window caused him extreme surprise. He jumped to his feet, instantly locking his frame into a defensive position. However, as his gaze flew to the window, he realized that there was no attacker at hand – simply a suction arrow that had been shot at the glass. Relaxing slightly, he warily approached the window.

Fluttering from the body of the arrow was a small, ragged piece of paper, ravaged by a familiar hand. He didn't have to open the window to read the blood-red script that seemed to pierce through the reflective glass:

_9:00 TOMORROW NIGHT  
MISS YOU  
XXX  
HA HA HA HA HA_

Fighting against his body's urge to smash the window to pieces, Bruce took a deep breath and backed into the wall for support. He wasn't ready for this; he was never again going to be ready. The situation burned in its injustice – nobody, Batman or not, should be asked to protect the city from another Joker attack. It was an insurmountable task. He would always win. _He had already won. _And yet, Bruce had no choice.

Quivering, he sank to the ground and rested his head against his knees. This helpless position was how Alfred found him minutes later as he approached the open door.

"Master Wayne?" he asked quietly, standing in the doorway.

Bruce's head shot up at once, and his bleary, red eyes betrayed both his distress and his lack of sleep. Numerous pangs of sympathy shot through Alfred. He knew what a strain was being placed on Bruce, and so was grateful that he had positive news to deliver.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I've some promising news. I just collected a message from the head of Razor Enterprises. She finally rang back." Bruce's expression brightened slightly.

"What'd she say?" he asked hoarsely.

"She apologized for taking so long to get back to you. However, she is very interested in a joint deal with Wayne Enterprises, and requested an after-dinner meeting with you, tomorrow night at 8:45 PM."

Bruce opened his mouth, about to ask Alfred to reschedule because of his existing date with the Joker, when inspiration struck.

_Bingo_. It was Bruce Wayne's alibi.

He could make the meeting, cut it short, arrive at Gotham docks as Batman, and with proof of Bruce Wayne's meeting, hold the Joker off until Bruce Wayne "arrived." It was still fairly weak, because it was unlikely that the Joker would care, but it gave him more time than his original plan of pretending that Wayne was sitting in the Batmobile. In that time frame, he could determine where the explosives were, and take the required action. He'd put a call in to Gordon and get the police force on backup as well.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred prodded gently, watching the play of ideas across Bruce's face with a mixture of confusion and worry.

"Sorry, Alfred," Bruce apologized. "Please call her back. Tell her it's a go."

It still left a great deal up to chance, but some of the previous dread of had been lifted. Yes, he still had to face the Joker, but he no longer had to initiate the impossible and procure an extra person to fill the other half of his identity. Bruce had a bad feeling about anything involving the Joker, but at least he now held onto a shred of possibility.

--

The Joker didn't make a habit of calling up old flames for favors, but this was an extenuating circumstance. He had to confirm that his carefully concealed instructions had been received. Flipping open his cell phone, he speed-dialed Arkham Asylum, punching himself through to the heavily screened patient line.

"Arkham Asylum Patient Line. All calls are listened to and recorded for patient records by a highly specialized team of doctors. Privacy is a privilege, not a right. How may I help you?" the receptionist droned mechanically.

"May I please speak to Ms. Harleen Quinzel?" the Joker asked, deepening his voice and softening its rough edges.

"State your name and relationship to the patient."

"Edwin Quinzel, second cousin," the Joker replied obediently, suppressing a grin. This was too fucking easy.

"There are five assigned doctors listening in on all calls directed to Harleen Quinzel. You have three minutes. Please hold."

The Joker clenched his knife tightly, ardently wishing that murder over the phone were possible. This sentiment only increased in its intensity when Harley's sugary tones wafted down the line.

"Eddy? Is that you?" she trilled in ecstasy.

Good girl, he thought to himself. She was utterly convincing. As she had better be, or his entire plan would be fucked. Simple though the task he required of her was, she was the only one who could do it well. And what's more, even though he had had enough of her for multiple lifetimes, the prospect of exercising ultimate power and abuse over someone so adoring was a delicacy off of which he would never wean himself. So, tonight he was springing her. After tomorrow's drama, he'd turn her out on her ass, and she'd likely find her way back to Arkham, where she belonged.

"Yes Harleen, it is! How are you?"

Harley nearly creamed herself at the sound of his voice. Disguised or not, it was still her Mr. J, and she was delighted that he had called her. She had been devastated when he left without her, but secretly knew that he would come to spring her out. The letter that had made its way into her cell on her food tray and was currently being broken down in her digestive system had contained the instructions for her escape. He claimed needed a favor from her. Of course he did. Criminal mastermind or not, her Puddin' couldn't survive in the big, bad world without his Harley. And what's more, he must miss her. He probably hadn't gotten any in weeks, poor thing.

"I'm just lovely Eddie, just lovely." The Joker rolled his eyes. God, that bitch could pour it on thick. She disgusted him. He grimaced through it.

"Auntie Phyllis misses you. Couldn't you write her sometime?" Code phrase number one.

"Oh, poor auntie! Of course I will! I'll write her tonight." Code phrase number two.

"That's perfect. We think of you often, Harleen." Code phrase number three.

"Oh God, I think of you every day. I knew you'd call me," Harley gushed. Shit. That wasn't a coded phrase. The Joker made a mental note to make her pay for that later.

"Well, be ready for me to call again soon." Final code phrase. Lock and load.

"Bye Eddie. I love you."

Something in the sultriness of her tone caused him to grow hard, despite his deep aversion to her. That sweet, soft little mouth, sucking him gently as he fisted a hand in her blonde hair, soaked with sweat …

"Goodbye Harleen," he replied quickly.

The Joker was disconnected automatically, which suited him just fine. Any longer, and he wouldn't be able to contain the mad laughter that exploded from his frame. He fell from his chair, beating his feet against the floor and convulsing wildly.

Maybe he'd fuck Harleen tonight, just for old time's sake.

--

The doctors that listened in on Harleen's phone call made numerous additions to her records that evening. All five specialists compiled several pages of notes, the gist of which were:

**Patient appears to be suffering from extreme isolation. Perhaps a reconnection with more family is necessary. Family strangely related to sexual urges. After three-minute phone conversation with cousin, patient spent entire afternoon masturbating to orgasm and screaming 'Edwin.'**


	11. Chapter 11

_Uhhhh ... hi. Sorry this has taken so long. It pains me to say this, but successive updates may take some waiting for as well. It's a combination of life as we know it, and a lack of direction for this story (I literally make it up as I go along.) However, excuses aside ... I hope you all enjoy, thanks for stickin' with me if you're still reading, and PLEASE REVIEW :D Thanks much. Happy new year!!!_

**Chapter 11**

It was funny in a perverse, God-is-laughing-at-your-sorry-ass kind of way. With viciously stripped walls, a dangerously splintered desk, and an aggressively triangular two-on-one positioning of hard-backed chairs, the claustrophobic space was much better suited to a mentally manipulative suspect interrogation than the coaxing, cooed questions of a victim interview. Oh, and a fucking one-way mirror. How _fucking_ appropriate.

"Calm the hell down," Victoria thought to herself. What the hell had stimulated _that_ nihilistic knife of a mental outburst? She had to push those kinds of thoughts down if she was going to survive this interrogation without incurring any sort of record. Or reveal something that initiated provocation of the Joker's temper. (Wait a minute, that shouldn't be a concern of hers … should it?)

Gordon noticed Victoria's hesitation and grimaced sheepishly. "Sorry about the décor, we're a little strapped for space at the moment – lot of victims to interview …" His explanation trailed off in embarrassment. "Have a seat?"

Victoria smiled weakly. "Thanks, Commissioner." With shaking legs, she lowered herself into the single seat that faced the other two. She indicated the empty chair nervously. "Is someone else going to…?" she began uncertainly.

"No, it's just…" Gordon answered uncomfortably. Both of them seemed to have trouble finishing their sentences.

Gordon produced two water bottles, a tape recorder, a pad of paper and a pen. He found himself unable to meet Victoria's gaze – which, unbeknownst to him, was having one hell of a time focusing on any one object. Having arranged the items on the table in a circle, then a curve, then a straight line, he finally closed his eyes and heaved a deep, world-weary sigh.

"Victoria." He placed her name into the empty space between them, offering her the familiar territory as a precursor to the difficult terrain that they were about to explore.

Victoria's eyes finally conceded to resting on the commissioner's tired face. The fact that his eyes were closed made it much, much easier. Another ten seconds passed. She watched as Gordon shifted in his seat and ran a worried hand through his hair. Did all police questioning sessions begin so passively? If they did, it was a very effective tactic; Gordon's nervousness was, inexplicably, giving her confidence.

Finally, with another sigh, he opened his eyes and stared at her…_shamefacedly? _"Victoria," he began again. "When we were in your apartment, and I – I apologized to you, for what the force – for what _I _put you through…you let me off too easily." He paused again, and a look of pain flashed across his face. "Before I ask you anything about last night, I need you to understand how deeply sorry I am for my foolishness. I put you in mortal danger for – for what I stupidly thought was the greater good. It was negligent, it was thoughtless, and it was…it was terrible. I sincerely apologize, for myself and on behalf of the force. I hope that we still have your confidence, for we are prepared to do our utmost to keep you safe."

Victoria nodded, not trusting herself to speak, for she had just realized the consequences of Gordon's apology. With a sudden clarity of mind, Victoria understood that she held a degree of power over the commissioner – the power to accuse him. He was here to make it up to her, not to interrogate her. He would want nothing more than to appease and protect her, lest she initiate litigation against GCPD, which would make Gordon look nothing short of terrible.

This understanding brought her sense of purpose sharply into focus. What did she want? To distill the truth of the events of the previous night, thus diverting the police from her situation. Why? So she could see the Joker again. (The simplistic truth of that thought caused her head to spin a little.)

It was remarkably simple. He wanted to make amends; she would 'allow' it. But gradually, and in a way that would shape her tale into the one that was most advantageous to her objective.

"I accept your apology, Commissioner," she began slowly, "But in all honesty, the experience has shaken much of my confidence in the justice system." That was the truth, and therefore it was easy to say.

"I completely understand," said Gordon with a rush of relief, "And I recognize that it will be potentially difficult to place your full confidence in us again right away. But I will do all I can – and I speak for the entire force – we'll do all we can to rebuild that trust."

Victoria steeled herself. "Thank you," she said quietly. "But I'm not sure that the same amount of precaution will – God willing – be necessary any more." _Don't fuck this one up, Tori-girl, don't fuck it uuuuuuup…._

Gordon looked at her in confusion. "Why would you think that?"

She swallowed, hard. "Because … after last night, it doesn't seem like the Jo – like he has any further interest in me." That was a lie, a lie that threatened her life, and was therefore quite difficult to say.

The commissioner leaned forward with interest. "I think I'd better switch this on," he said, indicating the tape recorder.

Victoria held her breath and nodded. Now all she had to do was back that statement up, and she would be free to go.

The whirring of the tape recorder sharpened her resolve. Gordon raised it to his lips and stated the case number, date and time.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions about the events of the past four days. First, could you please describe how you originally came into contact with the Joker?"

And then suddenly, inexplicably, _he_ was sitting in the third chair. Victoria gasped, then transitioned it into a steadying breath. "It's in your head," she told herself. "He's not really there." But then she heard his voice. Lilting, lazy, smug.

_Well, that's pretty personal stuff, but, ah, if you reeeally wanna know, first I, ah, unzipped my paaaants, and __**then**__ I rammed my …_

"I was playing at a fundraiser of Bruce Wayne's, and he burst in with his clowns and cleared the room. I was at the far end of the very long room, on a stage, and so they didn't see me, and I couldn't get out without walking right through them. I hoped that if I were quiet enough, I was far away that they wouldn't notice me. But the Joker seemed to sense me watching him, and he came right up to the stage and … he asked me to play." She hoped that by cutting off the voice, she could prevent it from provoking her.

Gordon nodded. "Yes, we've been investigating the Joker's invasion of Bruce Wayne's party as well. Did you hear anything that passed between the two of them?"

Victoria shook her head. "No, I did not." The truth.

"What did the Joker say to you?"

_I told her, I'm gonna make you __**sing**__ …_

"He said – play me something… beautiful. And I did. I played 'Everything Goes to Hell' by Tom Waits. And he – he laughed." She hadn't realized how strange this would be. With all the intense feeling that had passed between the two of them, speaking of him in such a sterile tone was a bit like describing a drunken party to your mother but with the mandatory omission of the presence of alcohol (despite the fact that you got completely fucked.) But it was easy enough to get the words to flow, as long as she ignored his voice. In her head. Of course.

Raising his eyebrows, possibly with a touch of reproach at her cocky song choice, Gordon spoke. "And the rest of the information – the appearance of his note in your piano, and the, uh, securing of your apartment – we are familiar with from there. Thank you, Victoria. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to talk through the past twelve hours, beginning from when the Joker appeared. Do you have any idea how he entered?"

_Hard and fast. Obviously. Ha._

"I don't know. I was on the piano, so I didn't hear him. He held a knife to my face, but put it down when I asked. Then, he offered me a choice – to die instantly, or to leave willfully – to leave with him. I went."

Gordon was writing furiously. "Where did he take you?"

"I don't know – I was blindfolded."

"Of course," muttered Gordon ferociously. "Sorry. Continue. What did the location look like, please?"

Fortunately, the voice did not speak again, though Victoria could have sworn she still saw him leaning back in the chair, arms crossed, licking his lips and gazing appraisingly down his nose at her. Then she blinked, and he was gone.

Victoria described the stark set-up of the loft. She segued into the Joker's demand for her performance, and had nearly finished the summary of his reaction when Gordon interrupted, asking which song it had been. This time, Victoria couldn't suppress her physical reaction, and her cheeks reddened at the song's amorous nature. She hadn't realized how this would look to the police.

"A Case of You," she said, a note of shame creeping into her voice. Gordon, however, didn't seem to notice. His eyes held no trace of recognition; he only shrugged.

"Is that Carole King or something?"

"No, it's, it's Joni Mitchell," Victoria replied with slight amusement. _Phew._

"So to recap, the Joker blindfolded you, drove you to an undisclosed location, at which he presented you with a piano and demanded you play for him, to which he responded with a fairly …human… physiological response to music enjoyment."

Victoria nodded. Whittled down to the basic facts like that, it did sound quite peculiar. But it was the truth. And that was the point where the yarn of truth reached its end.

"Was the Joker physical with you?"

"He – he was physical, in an animalistic sense. He put his hands on me, invaded my personal space …" she trailed off, inadvertently.

Gordon's eyes flicked up, and he leaned forward. His expression was intense, but his voice gentle. "Did he violate you at all, Victoria?"

She neither blinked nor looked away. "No."

Gordon was still staring. Until she added a hoarse, "Thank God."

That seemed to satisfy him. He nodded his agreement. "We're almost finished. Did the Joker give any insight into his seeming fascination with you?"

_And here … we … go._

"He gave me nothing," she said slowly, measuring her words. "He told me to forget that I had ever been there, and that he would be 'escorting' me home. After the music was over, he became very … clinical. Soulless. He wouldn't really look at me after that. From what I had heard of him, it seemed very uncharacteristic. But then I blacked out, and when I woke up the next morning, he had kept his word."

"Yes, he is certainly a man of his word," Gordon confirmed, a note of sarcasm in his voice. At Victoria's silence, he looked up at her again. The girl's distractedness caused a twinge of sympathy to rise in his chest, and he realized that he had no desire to press her anymore. She had clearly been through enough, and seemed to be handling the whole ordeal with a quiet, admirable resignation to fate's hand.

Also, he didn't want to get his ass sued. So he concluded that she had given him enough.

"Thank you," Gordon said softly, switching off the tape recorder. "I'm sorry I had to make you relive that. But – you held up remarkably well." What a poor, sweet girl. He offered her a smile as he stood.

"Thank you, Commissioner. You made it very easy." Ah, back to the truth. She stood as well, the oppressiveness of the room suddenly seeming to triple in intensity.

"One last thing – although the Joker appears to be finished with you, we can't be sure. I'm sorry to spring this on you again, but … we're going to have to secure your apartment one more time."

Victoria smiled, weakly. "I think I'm getting used to it."

--

He had pulled the stunt so many times that it had become no more than just that – a stunt. Busting out of Arkham – whether it was oneself, one's business partner, or one's ex-bitch/blowjob/punching bag was just too damn easy.

So, the Joker figured that he could swing it in broad daylight.

3:00 was the staff meeting. There was a new drug on the market, which was to be discussed over coffee.

The Joker's veins sang with longing each time he revisited the thought. If there was one thing he missed about Arkham, it was the drug trials. The dissonant clatter of syringes on a tray, the humming of the fluorescent light as it danced off the needle, the _whoosh_ as it pricked a hidden vein, the screams of the patients whose doctors were feeling particularly vindictive that day and stuck it somewhere that made it _really_ hurt (ooh, he _loved_ it when they did that …)

The Joker didn't much care for the effects of the drugs themselves. But it was _sort of _fun waiting for them to hit; not knowing what wretched state his body would be forced to assume for the next eight hours…

Oh, nostalgia. Now back to business. There was also a new drug _off_ the market. An ex-patient had just released the brilliant concoction, which, when imbibed, caused a significant drop in spatial and language abilities for a solid half-day. This was to be siphoned _into_ the coffee (by a cafeteria lady that owed the Joker a favor because he had slipped her a recipe for explosives made with common kitchen ingredients so she could off her son and his goddamn bitch of a wife … But that was another story.) An unknowing accomplice would push a similarly drugged cart of refreshments around to the unwitting guards.

So now, all that he had to do was wait. Then, at 3:20, he and his goons would bust a window, club the idiots who had passed on drinks, and pick up the goods.

Yes, it was simple, even a little elementary, for him. But elaborate schemes for escaping Arkham were so _passé. _Concocting another one would just be an insult to his intelligence. What's more, Harley didn't need to be impressed. And seeing the doctors reduced to babbling babes would be mildly amusing, to say the least.

The Joker had thirty minutes until show time. Stretching out in the backseat of the van, he decided to score a catnap before he was reunited with supreme pain-in-the-ass. (But oh, what an ass it was…)

---

She could hear the commotion from inside her cell. Heavy, repeated thuds and inhumane babbling was more than enough confirmation that her savior was not far away.

At the sound of his laughter, she felt a rush of heat between her legs. Her arms ached with the desire to be bent backwards by his, her tongue shivered in excitement of being crushed between his teeth, her skin tingled in anticipation of familiar patterns of bruising at his hands…

Her eyes didn't leave the clock across the hall. 3:18. 3:19. 3:20. As soon as the minute hand clicked to 3:21, and there was still no sign of him, save the echo of his laughter, she began to panic.

_He's not coming. Oh God, he's not coming. He's forgotten you. He's leaving._

The combination of drugs in her system launched a strange mixture of panic attack and heightened arousal. Thrusting her hands into her panties, she began to finger herself furiously as she hyperventilated. The room was spinning, tears were leaking from her eyes and she felt a tremendous sob building in her chest _MistahJMistahJMistahJ …._

Then she heard a wet gurgle from the guard outside her door and suddenly …

There he stood, framed by the fingernail-shredded doorway, freshly made up, a fine spray of blood dusting his jaw line, and looking utterly disgusted with her.

"I'll, ah, be in the _car_," he drawled with distaste. He turned on his heel and stalked out.

_That voice._ Undisguised, its effect was painfully potent.

With difficulty, Harley scrambled to her feet and dragged a hand through her ratty, unwashed hair. She was flooded with pure, unfiltered happiness and light. Dancing around drugged guards, she twirled through the halls and down the stairs, singing something she was pretty sure came from _The Sound of Music._

Pirouetting out the front doors, she halted at the sight of the old white van. Behind that door was her man. In _that_ car. On _that_ seat. Here. _Now._ She would bury her hands in his hair, she would lose herself in his mouth, she would unbutton his shirt and…

_HONK!_

Startled out of her reverie, Harley dashed towards the van and wrenched the door open. Swinging herself inside, she was knocked off her feet as the driver swung the vehicle out of the parking lot. She felt the Joker grab the back of her hair and a beatific grin spread across her face as her eyes filled with tears of joy and pain. Slamming the door, she whirled on her knees to face the far bench.

"Mistah J, I missed you so mu – agghhhhhh… "

The Joker thrust and groaned. Harley gagged.

It was good to be home.


End file.
